The First Time
by ficscribbler
Summary: Marguerite decides it's time to tell Roxton about an important event in her past.  3 chapters, completed
1. Time to Tell

**Title:** **The First Time **

**Summary**: Marguerite decides it's time to tell Roxton about an important event in her past.

**Disclaimer: **Rights to _The Lost World_ belong solely to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the producers licensed to create the television series; this fanfiction is not written with any hope of financial gain or other tangible benefit.

**Author Note:** Spoilers for episodes throughout the first three seasons and fourth season events as summarized in 2005 by Judith and Gar Reeves-Stevens.

**Part I – Time to Tell**

**~~~The Lost World~~~The Lost World~~~The Lost World~~~**

Everyone knew that Marguerite's favorite place of seclusion in the crowded treehouse was the upper balcony at the backside of the treehouse – if a basically circular structure could be said to have a 'back'. The only opening into the rest of the treehouse from this section of the balcony was the window of the room she'd claimed on the first day Challenger's expedition had arrived at Veronica's arboreal home.

Roxton suspected she'd chosen it as her bedroom exactly for its accessibility. With the bedroom door opening to the interior, and the bedroom window opening onto the balcony where one could go either direction around the treehouse, not to mention the possibility that one could hop over the railing and swing down to the balcony below, or climb up onto the thatch roof above, her room had more routes of escape than anyplace else in their lofty home.

And she'd made full use of that feature: Many a time he'd believed she was in her room only to arrive in her doorway and discover she wasn't there, or expected to find her on that section of the balcony and found only the empty wicker chair she'd commandeered for the shady spot. Her basket of mending would still be sitting there, with an article of clothing partially mended draped over the armrest, threaded needle tucked into the cloth where she'd left off… but no Marguerite. He'd never caught her climbing in or out through the window, or found any evidence that she'd deliberately avoided him by ascending or descending from the balcony… but he'd certainly entertained the suspicion more often than he cared to recall. Of course now that he knew one of her past aliases was "Parsifal", a name infamous within the echelons of counter-intelligence – not to mention the fact that she was reputed to be an expert thief as well – he realized he'd never stood a chance of catching her when and if she truly didn't want to see him.

Fortunately, that wasn't much of an issue these days. Ever since Challenger had determinedly re-created a time ripple so they could return Captain John Roxton to his own long ago era and reunite Lord John Roxton with their makeshift family, Marguerite seemed quite content to spend almost all of her time with him.

Much to his quiet satisfaction, she'd allowed him to turn her place of solitude into "theirs"; Roxton had strung up an oversized hammock-style chair from a hook in an overhead beam. The netting was surprisingly comfortable for lounging and was easily large enough to hold two. Most evenings found them swinging slowly, sometimes side to side, sometimes turning in circles, sometimes back and forth like a child's swing, always with Marguerite tucked under John's arm, snuggled close to his side as his booted foot propelled the hanging chair.

This was one of those nights.

She was half asleep after a long day of slogging gamely through boggy ground and thick underbrush with him, in search of a particular herb Challenger needed for their medical supplies. It had been harder to find than Veronica's directions led them to believe. The huntress probably could have located it in half the time, but her garden harvest was in full swing. She'd shanghaied Malone to help her, and any delay meant a loss of precious canned goods that rounded out their diet through most of the year. Roxton was already doing extra chores to enable Ned to help their hostess, but he'd volunteered to fetch George's herbs.

Marguerite had given him a baleful look and heaved a resigned sigh, but she'd been ready to leave when he reached the lift with his rucksack and rifle. There was no way she would allow him to enter the predator-laden boglands without someone to watch his back while his attention was on the flora. She hadn't grumbled – much – even though it had been a hot, humid hike. They hadn't made it home from the tedious task until the others had finished dinner, and she'd forgone food in favor of a hot shower. After he'd eaten and freshened up, he'd found her already waiting on their balcony for him, and she'd curled up against him with a weary sigh. Her hair was still damp as he idly played with the long curls that she hadn't bothered to tie up again.

There could be no doubt now that the beautiful brunette loved him, but it had taken a long time to earn her precarious trust. In the past she'd pushed him away because she considered her soul to be damned for the things she'd done, because she feared there was something evil in her that made her unworthy of even her parents' love, and because she believed he deserved better than a woman with her history and lack of identity. Given her conviction that she wasn't worthy of him, only a near-death experience had compelled her to admit her real feelings.

Their mutual conundrum was what to do with those feelings now that they were out in the open.

The most natural step was to consummate their love. The world-wise woman had certainly expected that to be what her long-time beau wanted, and if it had been any other woman he'd fallen in love with while stranded in a jungle far from civilization, he'd have followed through in a heartbeat.

But she wasn't any other woman. John knew that beneath her usual bold, devil-may-care façade, Marguerite cared deeply about proprieties. He couldn't shake his conviction that although she would enjoy their physical intimacy, she might also secretly condemn herself for it, just as she reviled herself for other actions in her past that went against the conscience she usually denied having. He smirked to himself at the thought of her automatic scoffing when anyone suggested she cared whether something was right or wrong; _right,_ _Miss_ "_What's today, Tuesday? I never kill anyone on Tuesdays"!_ If he'd suspected it before their encounter with the gypsies, he'd known for certain after she'd refused to shoot him to save her own life.

She could deny it all she wanted and it wouldn't change the fact that his lady had a moral compass just like the rest of them did, and she already bore a heavy burden of guilt for having violated it so often in her struggle to survive on her own. Much as he yearned to make thorough love with Marguerite, John didn't want to add yet another burden to those she already carried. He wanted to provide a measure of peace and security for her in a world that had shown her nothing but strife and danger. He wanted her to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the love he felt for her was based on far more than mere physical attraction or temporary gratification.

To that end, he'd deliberately kept her private balcony free of anything more sexual than light kisses and caresses. It was too easy for their physical passion to get out of control, too easy to take from her what she'd had to give too often as Parsifal, as the Black Widow of Vienna, and as whoever else she'd needed to be before he'd met her. He wanted her to know beyond the shadow of any doubt that, unlike other men – even himself when they'd first come here – he wasn't drawn to her solely for her beauty and her probably unparalleled skill as a lover.

Puzzled and perturbed by his refusal to indulge in more intimate pleasures, at first she hadn't understood his abstinence. He'd been careful to mask his amusement at her annoyance, which he knew was because she had no idea where he was going with this. "Relax, Marguerite," he'd patiently coaxed. "Just sit here with me, okay? Try it. We don't even have to talk. Let's simply enjoy this time together." She'd yielded, but only temporarily. When he'd said the same the next day, she'd insisted on an explanation. She hadn't liked his answer.

Exasperated with him, she'd refused to admit to harboring any such "sappy notions" about the propriety – or lack of propriety – of enjoying sex with him. She'd sniffed indignantly that he was making a mountain of a molehill, and, when he remained adamant, she'd warned him, "One week, John. I'll give you one week to get over these misguided notions." She didn't mention what she'd do if he hadn't relented at that point, and he hadn't asked.

"A week," he'd simply promised, and kept his fingers crossed that it would be long enough.

It was. Much to her bemusement and his gratification, her unease with his limits on their physical activity had faded over the next few days as she discovered that simply being held by him was an amazingly good feeling. Moreover, he made sure she knew that he liked it as much as she did. Reveling in this hither-to-unknown and undemanding contentment, she'd looked up at him at the end of that week and thanked him. She didn't explain what she was thanking him for, and Roxton considered the almost shy wonder in her lovely face to be ample reward when he refrained from teasing her about her capitulation. It was probably as much confirmation as she'd ever give him that he was right about the morals she secretly harbored.

He treasured each successive evening as he watched the formerly unapproachable woman relax at his side, her warm soft body molded to his, one of her delicate hands resting over his heart, her face nestled into the crook of his neck, her breath tickling his skin, her dark curls cascading over her shoulders as his large calloused hand slowly stroked the silken strands. Regardless of what new twist the Plateau tossed at them day after day, as each day drew to a close the couple made the time to simply hold one another and reaffirm their love.

But while the quiet times were rewarding in their own way, the evenings John liked best where those when they also talked as they swung and watched as the sunset faded into dusk and the stars slowly became visible. They might revisit the activities of their current day, confide to one another some of their hopes and dreams, or review their growing relationship. Occasionally she mentioned her past, although she didn't usually linger longer than a few sentences. No matter what the topic, he welcomed these glimpses she offered of her inner thoughts.

It wasn't that they didn't talk during the day, too. John was pretty sure there wasn't anything they hadn't talked about in the past few months, whether they were alone or with the others. Marguerite had grown more open with everyone else, too, not only with the man who'd won her heart. Yet as pleased as he was to watch the last of her aloofness transform into carefully-casual affection with their housemates, it was their private chats on their balcony that he waited for all day long.

It was their special time, something he wanted to believe she hadn't done with anyone but him. Sharing their thoughts and memories with one another felt more intimate to him than sharing their bodies. Marguerite had always guarded her genuine thoughts and feelings to a much greater extent than she did her body; understandable, given her past. Yet Roxton couldn't help wondering whether these quiet personal conversations were as unique as he hoped. What if she'd done this kind of thing with other men in quest of Parsifal's goals or in search of her identity? What if Marguerite had fought this at first not because she didn't understand his intention, but because it reminded her of what she'd had to do in the past? What if she didn't look forward to this time together as he did? What if the very thing he was trying to give her was only another reminder of skills in Parsifal's arsenal that she'd rather forget? And what if it went even further back than that?

Marguerite had said little enough about her pre-war years – or any other time of her life, for that matter – but he gathered that her physical beauty and innate intelligence had been the only assets available to her once her adoptive family had abandoned her after she'd finished whatever level of schooling she'd actually attained. Although there was a slim chance she'd managed to protect her virtue by adroit use of her intellect – and more luck than was likely – he was painfully aware of what a beautiful young girl like Marguerite must've had to do to survive, at least until she'd mastered thievery under Adrienne's tutelage.

When he thought of what her earlier life must have been like, living hand-to-mouth, having no shelter from the elements or from human predators… Even once she'd gained some experience, it must have been a constant struggle, all alone as she'd been. He knew his own gender too well to honestly believe she'd escaped unscathed. Her wary, defensive behavior was proof enough that she knew the dangers; there was no question in his mind that she'd been taken advantage of by men in her past. It was a good thing that he'd probably never know the details for certain. It broke his heart enough just to know a little of what she'd gone through. Those tidbits were more than enough to be sure she'd had valid reason to suspect the motives of the people with whom she rubbed shoulders, past and present. His blood never failed to curdle at the thought of where, when and how she might have learned to do some of the sensual things she'd must have done to succeed as Parsifal.

He chafed under the knowledge that she must have been hurt by men selfish or cruel enough to use her in pursuit of their own pleasures. Roxton couldn't help but wish he'd been there to champion her when she was most vulnerable, when some self-seeking poor-excuse-for-a-man had taught his precious lady that most men only wanted one thing from beautiful women. Whenever he considered Marguerite's past experiences with men, including his own initial sordid treatment of her, he could only marvel that she hadn't killed or maimed him a hundred times over before he'd come to his senses.

Actually, knowing what he now knew, maybe she really had killed or maimed at least a couple of those other men for mistreating her. It was a gratifying thought, but it didn't change the fact that he wished with all his heart that he could've made things right for her long before now. If he could go back in time to make just one thing easier on her, he'd choose to be her first lover.

Marguerite deserved for her first time to have been special, not rushed through with someone who'd only used her for his own satisfaction, which was the way it had most likely happened not only the first time but for the majority of her sexual history. How in God's name could he ever make up for all she'd suffered, for all the good she'd missed?

She stirred against him, drawing his anguished thoughts back to the present, and tilted her face up to quirk a brow at him. "What's wrong, John?"

"Wrong?" he echoed, caught off guard.

"You've tensed up, like you're upset about something," she pointed out simply.

He chastised himself for allowing his body to betray his thoughts; he should've known she'd pick up on the tension that accompanied his dark consideration of her past. "No, no… I was just thinking what a remarkable woman you are," he smiled, prevaricating with a partial truth. But he couldn't quite meet her clear gaze.

Her brow creased in surprised displeasure at this evidence that something was amiss, and she smacked his chest, ignoring his wince since she knew it wasn't that she'd hurt him but that he'd been caught in a deception. "You're a very bad liar, Lord Roxton," she chastised sternly. "It makes me wonder how anyone ever believed you could be Parsifal! Now come on; out with the truth, if you please. What's troubling you?"

Roxton scrambled for something… anything… but was too aware of her piercing eyes to come up with anything plausible.

"Well?" she demanded with steel in her tone as he remained silent, her gaze sharpening to full alertness.

Blast! Now nothing less than the truth would do; she'd know if he fibbed. Embarrassed, his ears reddened as he gruffly admitted, "I was wishing it had been me who'd had the privilege of being your first lover, instead of some bloke who probably only cared about his own jollies."

She blinked, taken aback. "That's what you've been brooding about? My first lover?"

By the warmth he felt flooding his face, he knew his cheeks were reddening now as well as his ears. Feeling incredibly doltish, he looked everywhere but at his lady as he stumbled through an explanation of how he hadn't started out thinking about _that_, specifically, but rather about how much he liked their nightly time together on the hammock… and the entire thing spilled out, from his appreciation of their quiet exchange of confidences and his recognition that it was possible that it didn't mean the same to her because of things she might've had to do as Parsifal – not that he held any of that against her, of course – in fact, just the opposite was true because it was a testament to her instinct for self-preservation that she'd not only survived but succeeded in saving who knew how many tens of thousands of lives – but that he wished he'd been around to champion her so she hadn't needed to develop that bloody instinct for self-preservation – and it didn't matter one iota to him that she was far from being a virgin, except that he hated the thought that some idiot hadn't initiated her with the tenderness and respect she'd deserved – which had led to his not-at-all-jealous wish that he'd been the one to introduce her to a man's appreciation of her, not just for her beauty but for who she really was –

Marguerite's finger on his lips put a stop to his jumbled recitation. He finally met her gaze again, and released his breath in a sigh of relief at seeing that she was amused instead of offended.

"You really are the most adorable man," she said affectionately, and stretched up to gently kiss his cheek.

Bemused, he slanted her one of his lopsided grins. "Thank you. Uh… why?"

His baffled query earned him another light buss before she answered, "Because you care so much." She cuddled close again with a sigh of contentment as she nestled her face against the soft cotton of his worn shirt, wrapped one arm across his ribs, and fit her body to his as snugly as possible. "You have nothing to worry about, John. I'm sure being together like this means as much to me as it does to you, perhaps more. I never thought I'd be able to do this with anyone, until you," she confided candidly. "You're right that there were occasions when Parsifal used similar situations for information gathering, although it was usually post-coital, not in lieu of," she added with a hint of perplexity in her tone that told him she still didn't fully accept his reasoning about restricting their intimacy. "But I made it a rule never to stay with a man a moment longer than necessary to achieve whatever goal I was working toward. You're the only man I've ever trusted enough to talk like we do here… or to not talk… I wouldn't give up this time with you for the biggest diamond in the world." She paused and thought for a second, then added with certainty in her tone, "Or for platinum, either."

His chuckle rumbled beneath her cheek, and his arms tightened around her. "Good to know I rate that highly in your books, my dear." He tenderly pressed his lips to her forehead.

Her green eyes sparkled up at him for a moment. Then her gaze skittered away as she gnawed on her lower lip.

Recognizing the signs of an internal debate about whether this would be the right time to confess something important, Roxton braced himself for whatever she might say next. After losing his temper during the fiasco over the Ouroboros, and then again when they'd been trapped in that cave-in, he was painfully aware of her fear of his rejection. Since those regrettable lapses, he'd succeeded in responding much more moderately to the occasional major revelations Marguerite offered up, especially when tendered without his prompting. His self-control had been rewarded as he'd witnessed her appreciation of his supportiveness and her increasing confidence in the fact that his devotion was unshakable. He was determined to do nothing that might give her cause to regret anything she shared. So when she began to speak, he clamped his jaw shut and listened carefully.

"My first lover is another reason I cherish every moment with you, John," she said softly, looking up at him again. "It's something I should have told you before… but talking about first lovers doesn't exactly come naturally into conversations…"

He absorbed her words for a moment, trying to form a logical connection that could explain how something she should have told him about her first lover might be a reason for her to cherish her time with him now. Although he hadn't yet told her this particular rule he intended to follow, the first possible connection that came to mind was his determination never to do anything that would make her uncomfortable or cause her pain when they coupled, never to join the ranks of men who'd taken their pleasure at her expense. If she'd lost her virginity as he suspected… that would qualify as a reason she might cherish being with him instead of with that first lover. His jaw tightened further, and his stomach turned. "He hurt you, didn't he?" he asked gruffly.

"What? No – no, far from it!" she assured him hastily, her startled reaction reassuring him even as she continued, "No. No, John. He didn't hurt me. Truth be told, he rescued me." Marguerite hugged him reassuringly, an apology for having upset him clear in her voice as well. "And he was very gentle with me. Most of what I know about physical pleasure, I learned from him."

He honed in on one word – rescued. She'd been in danger, then, as John had feared. But her first lover had saved her from that danger. And he'd been gentle with her, taken care to give her pleasure. That was good, better than he'd hoped, based on the little he knew for certain about her past relationships. "Well, I can't fault him for that," he said flatly.

His words made her smile, albeit a trifle nervously, because she could see he was withholding judgment on what else he might condemn the unknown man for doing. She offered tentatively, "I don't know what my life would have been like if not for meeting him. If he hadn't intervened, there's no question that I would have been hurt."

He dragged in a deep breath to steady himself, hating the thought that she'd been so vulnerable, so alone… and fairly positive that he didn't really want to hear more about this man. But she'd just said she should have told him long ago, and she was watching him, her silver green eyes measuring his reaction, deciding whether she could tell him more or not. She obviously had something she wanted, or needed, to talk about, and he couldn't let her down. "Okay, tell me about it," he said as matter-of-factly as he could.

She nodded, accepting him at his word – for now, at least. "Thank you, John."

He felt her relax against him, and was pleased at this evidence of her long-craved trust. He rubbed her back, gentle soothing circles to further reassure her that she had his support for whatever she needed to say… and to comfort himself, the contact reminding him that she was here with him now, safe and sound. He tamped down his tension, forcing himself to relax each limb, each muscle, each breath, determined to convey complete openness.

Marguerite marveled once again at the unfathomable miracle of this man's unconditional love. His open-hearted protectiveness was humbling, and made her all the more determined to make a clean breast of this; he deserved to know. "I was seventeen and on my own." She shrugged and kept her tone nonchalant. "I had already pawned anything of value, had nothing left, no place to stay, no friends, no prospects… still baby-faced. I'm sure you can imagine where I ended up."

Roxton nodded, not trusting his voice this time. She'd been in _unspeakable_ trouble! He'd had the misfortune of seeing more than once what happened when a virgin had been up for bid, and it made no difference whether it was the slave markets of some distant land, a slum bordello, or an exclusive gaming house attended by the highest ranks of so-called civilized nations. He'd once been present at such an establishment when a beautiful young girl had been brought forth by the proprietor and offered to the highest bidder. She'd obviously been gently reared, but had fallen on hard times. It had happened during the period of his life when he'd done his best – or perhaps his worst would be a better way to express it – to drown his memories of William's death; he'd drunk so much back then that he retained very few memories of anything other than that one particular night, which had affected him so deeply that he had a vague recollection of the event despite his alcoholic stupor. Specific details were a bit hazy, but remembered that he'd been extremely disgusted over the fact that every disreputable rakehell with a title had been vying for the right to deflower the girl, with several dozen supposedly reputable noblemen right alongside them in the bidding. All during the auction there had been crass comments and crude humor about the various painful ways the girl could be "made a woman" – and all while the gorgeous little chit was standing right there.

The thought of Marguerite being in that same position was enough to make his stomach churn with bile. "Sold," he bit out the word.

She nodded, unable to suppress a shiver at the memory. She resolutely pushed away that portion of the memories. After all, fate had been on her side that night, despite the ignoble start of the episode. "Fortunately, there was a knight in disguise present, and he paid an obscene amount of money for the privilege of my company." There was a touch of wry humor in her tone.

John was only mildly appeased by her reference to a heroic rescue. He would withhold a final opinion until he learned why she considered this man to be her knight when he'd taken part in the bidding and then followed up by taking inexcusable advantage of her plight for his own benefit. He reminded himself that Marguerite was watching him, that it wasn't easy for her to share such things, and that she wanted him to see this man as she did. He struggled to find something to approve about the man, but all he could come up with was a grudging, "I'd have done the same if I'd been there."

His lady smiled at his words and placed her hand over his where it rested on her forearm. "I believe you, my love."

He liked the warm sincerity of her tone, but it was a hint of lurking laughter that caught his attention. "What aren't you telling me?" he asked keenly.

"All in good time, Lord Roxton," she demurred.

He grimaced and rolled his eyes. "Of course. What was I thinking?" His dry humor made her smirk before she continued, but her expression softened into a gentle smile of remembrance that startled him. She recalled this man with fondness? His eyes narrowed alertly as she resumed her story.

"He knew I was horribly frightened, and somehow he also knew I was starving. He apologized for the moronic behavior of men in general and in particular for the unforgivable manners of the men that had bid on me. He ordered a four course meal at his rooms, and told me his name was Jack. Then he said that I was one of the most beautiful young ladies he'd ever had the honor to meet and I should never settle for being treated as anything less than a lady."

"Smooth operator," he grumbled, suspicious that she'd been taken in by the letch's patter. This oaf must have been quite charismatic for her to react this way so long after the fact. How could such a wily woman not see this for the seduction it had been?

"Extremely smooth operator," she agreed, eyes twinkling again. "He was also very handsome, utterly charming, and a perfect gentleman."

"No," John shook his head in immediate denial, unable to let that one pass without making his opinion clear. "A perfect gentleman wouldn't have taken your virginity after he won the bidding; a perfect gentleman would have treated you like the lady he said you were and gotten you out of there without…" He faltered a moment.

Marguerite chuckled, amused at his grim indignation. "Without ruining me?" she said lightly, and planted another feather light kiss on his jaw when he winced at her bluntness. "Well, I'm sure that's what he would have done… if he'd been sober."

He blinked. "He was drunk?" Well, he hadn't expected that one! Nor did he know what to make of the inexplicable compassion he saw in her expressive face.

"Stone blind drunk," she confirmed, her tone an odd mixture of sympathy and sadness. "Mind you, he seemed perfectly clear-headed to me at the time." At his incredulous look, she added, "He was well-coordinated, lucid, didn't slur his words, and he didn't drop things or stumble when he walked. Back then I didn't have any experience with the wide range of behavior people exhibit under the influence of alcohol, so I had no idea that some people can drink all day and still appear to be functioning quite normally. It never occurred to me that he wasn't sober, not until years later. If he'd been sober, things might have gone very differently, but all things considered, he took very good care of me, John. The sex was… exquisite."

He couldn't help but grunt his doubt, though he knew she meant to reassure him. He'd worked too hard to convince her that their "love" meant more to him than mere physical intimacy, that he wanted to share something far more permanent with her. "There's more to taking 'very good care' of a woman than sex, Marguerite, even if it was good." No way was he going to accept her descriptor of the sex as exquisite. "You know that."

Her green gaze was tender as it met his conflicted frown. "Yes, John. But that's exactly what I'm trying to tell you. Jack did give me far more than only good sex. He showed me what a real man is, what a real man does. All these years, he's been the measuring stick against which I've judged all other men, and the only times I've gotten into trouble were when I settled for someone who didn't measure up."

He felt as if his heart had stopped. "Including me? Is this guy the reason you were so wary of me for so long? Because I didn't measure up?"

She pressed a warm kiss to the side of his neck. "No, John, I wasn't wary of you because you didn't measure up. It was because you _did _measure up to Jack, and because I knew you could be so much more to me than Jack was." At his confused look, she added, "I knew I could easily feel far too much for you, Lord Roxton, because of what happened with Jack. And since I'd long ago come to believe that giving in to any kind of deep, genuine feeling was dangerous, I tried to keep my distance from you."

"I don't understand."

She drew a deep breath. "Let me explain it properly…"

**~~~The Lost World~~~The Lost World~~~The Lost World~~~**


	2. Time to Remember

**Summary**: Marguerite decides it's time to tell Roxton about an important event in her past.

**Disclaimer & Note: See Part I**

**Part I : **She drew a deep breath. "Let me explain it properly…"

**Part II: Time to Remember**

**~~~The Lost World~~~The Lost World~~~The Lost World~~~**

_She was petrified by the bold leers, the horrible running commentary on her anatomy, the things those men were saying about which she grasped only enough meaning to know meant they intended to hurt and humiliate her. She didn't even notice the man lounging lazily at a side table until his bid quieted those of the other men as he named an absurdly high amount. She knew it was absurd, because she'd had a reckoning from the lawyers about how much her adoptive family had paid for her keep all these years – boarding schools, lessons in music and art, travel every summer, clothes, – and what this man had just offered for one night with her was more than the sum total expended on her during her entire life. _

_The family's lawyer had haughtily informed her that such an amount of money was more than most people saw in a lifetime. She should be thankful the family had done so much for a child not even related to them. She was quite fortunate that they weren't demanding repayment but were instead bequeathing her a small – final – monetary gift. She could use it to tide her over until she established herself as a governess or a seamstress, or she could choose to start a new life on the continent or in the colonies, he'd said indifferently, but she'd best make her decision quickly because the money wouldn't go far._

_He'd been right. She'd learned a great deal about the value of money in the months since then. She was a practical girl, so she hadn't wasted time. She hadn't let pride or upbringing stand in the way of seeking another way to support herself. But her small capital wasn't enough to establish herself in any independent household or to set up a business of her own. It hadn't taken long to discover that she was too old and too well-educated to be accepted as an apprentice seamstress with an established dressmaker, whether renowned or less fashionable and lower-rated. And no respectable family wanted a beautiful seventeen year old without references or a proper identity – not to serve as a governess or as a housekeeper or even as a maid. She'd been too well-bred, her manners too refined, and of course she'd been far too young and too pretty to successfully join the servant class without drawing unwelcome problem-causing attentions, and employers knew it. One brief stint as a governess with a diplomatic family desperate enough to try even a seventeen year old novice had proven that such reservations about her age and beauty were right – too much temptation for older males in the family._

_So in less than six months she'd been on the street with nothing left to her name – not that she'd had a name, either. What it came down to was that she could either starve or freeze to death on the streets - or take the leering advice given by the landlord as he'd evicted her when her funds ran out. Oh, she hadn't taken his advice to join a bordello, not at first. She'd hoped against hope that something would turn up. She'd tried living in the streets. But it hadn't been like when she was a child, that one idyllic period when she'd run wild in Paris with a group of other homeless urchins. She'd discovered that she was now too old to be safely anonymous living on the streets. In the end she'd presented herself at an edifice pointed out to her by a sympathetic Bow Street runner after he saved her from a pair of drunken sailors who'd chased her into a dark, filthy alley. Learning she had no home, no family, and no money, the gruff stranger told her, "Knock on the side door there, four doors down. It's an upper class establishment, Miss, and a pretty little bit like you might just do well."_

_With no other options, she'd chosen survival. But by the time the bidding was underway, she'd been wishing herself back in that alley; it couldn't be any worse with those sailors than with these well-dressed but gutter-minded men. It was sheer bravado that kept her on her feet, her back ramrod straight, slim shoulders squared, head held high as they wagered for the right to claim her. When the room full of men went quiet at that last bid, it was difficult to see the winner through the throng. Then he rose from a chair at a poker table and sauntered to the auctioneer to hand over his vowels, and she was torn between relief and absolute terror at the sight of him. _

_He was probably the handsomest man in the room, tall, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with deep-set dark green eyes, clean-cut classic bone structure, and longish thick brown hair. He moved with easy confidence, as if he knew his own strength and his own worth, and by the tailor-made clothing he wore and the unquestioned acceptance of his marker in payment of his bid, he was worth plenty. _

_The other men stepped aside as he strolled toward her, some reluctantly or resentfully, but all respectfully. He stopped before her and held out his hand. "Shall we?" he asked calmly._

_Uncertainly, she searched his sun-bronzed face as she placed her hand in his, but she couldn't read his expression. He bowed over her hand, then drew it to the crook of his arm before he turned and ushered her forward at his side – for all the world as if he were escorting her at any of a dozen society balls probably being held that very night! _

_The men parted before him again, staring. Then someone laughed and hooted, and then they were all chuckling, slapping him on the back, congratulating him on his win, and teasing him that they hoped she'd be worth the price he'd paid… _

_If not for the gentle pressure of his other hand over hers where it rested on his arm, she thought she'd have panicked at the ribald humor once again displayed by the men crowded around them to cheer their departure. Someone pinched at her hip, and she jerked in surprise. Instantly, his arm was around her shoulders instead of under her hand, which was now clasped in his as he guided her before himself, shielding her from the rowdy men pressing in on them as they moved toward the exit._

_He didn't respond banter back, but ignored the other men as if he didn't hear a word of it. Then while they were paused near the door to wait for a blonde-haired maid to fetch his cloak, he'd spoken: "And one for the lady." _

_His calling her a lady had prompted another whole round of jeering jokes and laughter at Marguerite's expense, and again she noticed that he refrained from joining in. She tried not to react when she was pinched again, and someone groped at her backside, but his keen gaze seemed to see everything. His lips tightened and his eyes narrowed at such discourtesy, and when his arms encircled her and firmly hugged her to his chest, she understood that it was to protect her from wandering hands, not to show off his ownership of his prize. _

_When the nervous maid reappeared with his coat and a thick shawl for her, he courteously wrapped the woven material around her trembling shoulders, concealing the risqué décolleté of the gown provided to her by the manager in place of her own dirty clothing. Her new escort asked her if she had any other possessions she'd like to bring along, but she'd shaken her head. . She'd had only the clothes on her back and her locket when she knocked on that side door, and the manager had chucked the clothes into the fireplace of the room where she'd changed. She'd been allowed to keep her locket only because the brusque proprietor had decided it added to the look of innocence about her. Other than the gold trinket, she had nothing._

Roxton was brought back to the present by the feeling of Marguerite shuddering against him. He looked down to see her beautiful eyes clouded with the remembered misery and fear of that long-ago night. She had shifted position, her slender body full of anxiety, one white-knuckled hand clenched around her locket, her lips compressed as she struggled to deal with unexpectedly overwhelming memories. He shoved aside his own black misery at this proof that it had been as bad for her as he'd feared; she needed him now. "Hey, hey; it's alright. You're safe now," he murmured softly, rubbing comforting circles over her back with one hand as he held her close.

It was a few moments before she was able to recover her composure; she hadn't anticipated feeling the negative aspects of her memories so strongly. His gentle soothing tone and physically comforting touch was just the tonic she needed, though, bringing her back from the long-ago night to the present. Marguerite drew a steadying breath, and summoned a smile. "Yes, I'm safe with you," she agreed, voice still husky and a trifle unsteady. She kissed the warm sun-bronzed skin exposed at the base of his neck. Her smile grew more genuine as she added, "As safe as I was with Jack, although I didn't know it yet." And she continued with her tale, confident in the knowledge that the worst of the memories were behind her now.

_The way he treated her wasn't at all what she'd expected, after the behavior of all the other men she'd met since being on her own. The other patrons of the club certainly egged him to kiss her and maul her – in terms quite inappropriate for mixed company, too! But he continued to treat her as if they were in a more customary social setting in which proper manners were the rule. Even once they were out the front door and into the cab he hailed, he was courteously solicitous of her comfort and peace of mind. _

_Rather than pawing at her the second the door closed out the world beyond the covered cab, he smiled. "Relax, miss. I'm not going to hurt you. You're perfectly safe with me, I promise you." His voice, like his clothes, bespoke authority, culture, and rank. _

_She managed a slight smile in return._

"_Good," he nodded. "My name is Jack. What's yours?"_

_She hesitated, remembering that the lawyer had said she'd had her locket at the orphanage when she'd been adopted, so they'd called her Marguerite, but no one knew for certain if either the locket or the name had truly been hers. "Mary," she compromised, hoping that it was close enough to be considered truth._

_Again he smiled, and again it was the same sort of lopsided grin. She decided it was attractive._

"_Mary. I'm very sorry for that boorish behavior back there. It's really quite inexcusable how so many otherwise levelheaded fellows can turn into such insufferable louts when they ought instead to be rising to the occasion. Take any one of them separate from the others and he's probably a decent enough chap, but when you toss them all together, they seem to lose all semblance of civility."_

_Her own brow creased as she eyed him. _

"_What is it?" he asked tolerantly._

"_Well," she was doubtful of the wisdom of voicing what was puzzling her about his claim, but since he'd asked… "You're the one that just bought me."_

_He chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "So I did. I guess that makes me appear to be one of them, doesn't it? But you see, I bought you to rescue you, not to ruin you." _

_She swallowed and gnawed at her lower lip. "Does that mean you're not going to…?"_

_Jack's amusement faded and he nodded somberly. "You're the most beautiful young lady I've seen in quite some time, Mary. You should never accept being treated as anything less than a lady – not only because of your beauty but because you're human. Every human deserves to be treated with respect. If I'm any judge of women – which I am – you've been raised to gentility, but even if you weren't, you'd still be a female, a member of the fairer gender. That makes you worthy not only of respect, but also of protection. So no, I have no intention of forcing myself upon you."_

_Marguerite closed her eyes in relief and breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving._

"_But we must do something with you, mustn't we?" he drawled, and stretched his long legs across the coach to prop them on the opposite bench. He crossed his ankles, then folded his arms across his broad chest and studied his perfectly-polished boots. "The question is, what should that something be? You're safe enough tonight, but you'll need a plan for the future."_

_She watched him, wondering if somehow this man could think of something she hadn't. He was so much older than she; surely he could find a solution where she had failed. After all, if he hadn't won her, she'd have been at the questionable mercy of any of those other men right now. She shuddered at the thought, remembering some of the less appealing of those who had bid on her. But this man, Jack, had saved her from that. Now she had a champion. _

_It was rather like the old Camelot tales she'd long ago decided were more myth than legend. She was a damsel in distress, and sure enough, a knight in shining armor had come along to rescue her in the nick of time – and he was quite a handsome knight! Suddenly this horrid nightmare had the feel of being an adventure rather than a shadowy unknown future of unfathomable misery. It was a much better feeling than anything she'd known lately, and somehow she was certain she could trust this man to see her safely through. She relaxed, content to leave her fate in Jack's hands. _

_The hack soon arrived at their destination, and once the driver had handed the young brunette down Jack told him there was no need for him to wait. He paid him off, and once again offered his arm to his companion. She settled her hand into place and smiled up at him as he escorted her into a lovely, prestigious-looking old brick building. The lobby confirmed her impression that this was a respectable establishment; thick oriental carpets were strategically placed on the gleaming hardwood floors, and several uniformed footmen leaned against the wall near the door, ready to jump at the bidding of any guest. She could see the common room through the wide-open double oak doors. A lively fire crackled in the large fireplace, flanked on either side by several floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-backed volumes. Plump wingback chairs and convenient side tables were arranged in small groupings, and there were several older gentlemen occupied there with their newspapers and pipes, or engaged in cards with one another. Through another open doorway she could see the public dining room, where a dozen well-dressed patrons were enjoying their meals at tables set with fine china on white linen cloths. She expected him to escort her to one of these rooms, but he led her straight on through the lobby, headed for the staircase with casual familiarity. _

"_What is this place, Jack?" she asked. _

"_My hotel. I keep rooms here whenever I'm in town. It's much nicer than a room at the club, and we can be private here," Jack assured her. He waved a hand to the proprietor at the desk as they passed it. "James, please send up a good meal as quickly as possible – a full four courses."_

_Marguerite's eyes widened, and her mouth watered at the very thought of real food. _

"_And several bottles of that delightful brandy you served last night, and perhaps… a nice warm cider for the young lady," the nobleman added, barely breaking his stride toward the stairs. _

"_Immediately, My Lord," the man bowed his head and hurried down the back hall toward his kitchens and wine cellar._

_This confirmation of his status and the instant obedience rendered to her rescuer only increased Marguerite's awe of her escort. She couldn't believe how well this evening was turning out, compared to what she'd imagined when she'd given up hope and gone to that other place. The club's manager had given her a few bites of bread to eat while she was bathing and changing her clothes, but not enough to truly ease her hunger. He'd said he'd give her more if he had a good report from whatever gentleman won her. She'd resigned herself to being hungry until she'd finished with… whatever it was that she might be asked to do. But now it appeared she was to have a proper meal after all. And in as fine an establishment as she'd ever seen!_

_Jack led her upstairs to the front apartment, seated her in one of the comfortable chairs before his own fireplace, and deftly plied the hand bellows to stir up the glowing embers until flames caught the firewood that had been laid in anticipation of his return. In moments it flared up to a proper blaze that added warmth and light to the room. _

_The young nobleman tossed the bellows aside as he rose and crossed the room to sprawl onto the chair beside hers, his brow puckered in thought as he once again considered what was to be done with his young guest. He reached absently for the decanter on the side table and poured a small amount into the waiting glass. "Tell me about yourself, Mary. I assume you have no family and no home, or you wouldn't have been in such a place tonight. Where do you come from?"_

_Marguerite dutifully answered this and many successive questions. She was still telling him her story when the proprietor and two footmen entered with the dinner Jack had ordered. _

_He waved the attendants off, saying they would serve themselves and declining any need to be further waited upon. "Yes, yes, thank you. Very good. I'll ring if we need anything else."_

_It was more food than she'd seen in one place since she'd left the school, and he encouraged her to eat as much as she liked. He joined her in the repast, but tended to walk about as he ate, mulling various possibilities for her future, proposing, analyzing and discarding scenario after scenario, most of which she'd already considered and all but one of which he found improbable._

_Unfortunately, by the time they finished eating they still hadn't come up with anything better than setting up Marguerite as someone's mistress. As she'd already learned, her age, beauty, and education left her with too few options. "Couldn't I be your mistress?" she meekly asked him as she sipped the sweet cider he'd secured for her._

"_No. I travel too much. You need someone that will be here with you. The difficulty is in finding the right man. You don't want to risk ending up with someone that might mistreat you."_

"_How will I know which man is the right man?" _

_He chuckled and shook his head at her naivety. _

Marguerite was distracted from her story by Roxton grumbling under his breath. Her silver-green eyes glinting with humor, she prompted, "What was that, John?"

"I said I suppose the bounder was only too glad to enlighten you," he muttered, knowing she'd heard him full well the first time he'd said it. His lady grinned, once again with an affection that provoked him into telling her she was far fonder of this no-good cad than he deserved. "He used your innocence against you, Marguerite!" he ground out between gritted teeth. "I can't believe you can't see it!"

"Oh no, John," she assured him in the tender tone she usually reserved only for him. "He didn't use me. He gave me a precious gift." She set two fingers on his lips when he started to argue again, and insisted, "Listen, John. You'll understand."

He didn't like it, but he reminded himself that she was sharing something from her past that she considered special, trusting him with the ultimate private experience of her life. He'd said she could tell him, and he was determined that she'd find him to be a man of his word. With effort, he tamped down his certainty that he would NOT understand, and waited.

Marguerite nodded her approval, and relaxed against him again as she continued right where she'd left off, with Jack's answer to how she'd know which man was the right man.

"_What those men back there talked about doing to you was no more than debauchery, Mary. We need to find you a man who knows how to treat a woman right, with the respect due to the fairer gender. A real man never hurts his lover the way those cads at the club were planning."_

"_But…" She hesitated, and he poured himself another small glass of brandy while he watched her struggle with how to phrase her question. So much speculation and gossip had been bandied about by both the girls and the teachers of her schools, not to mention the things she'd heard and seen during her brief freedom in Paris as a street urchin. "But isn't a mistress supposed to do whatever pleases her master?"_

_Jack shook his head firmly and threw back his drink, swallowing it in one gulp before he answered. "A mistress is not a slave. The man who takes a mistress is not her master, but her patron, or her protector. He provides for her in exchange for her favors. She has the right to walk away at any time. She is not required to submit to degrading or painful acts, even if her patron demands it. Don't ever let anyone treat you as anything less than a lady, Mary. And don't act anything less than the lady you've been raised to be. If you comport yourself like a lady and expect to be treated with respect, others will respond to you with the deference due a lady. That includes the way you allow a man to speak to you and touch you."_

_Marguerite nodded, having heard similar platitudes all her life. It hadn't worked very well with most of the people she'd met lately, but she knew it was because of the environment she'd been forced into by circumstances. When and if you were in the right surroundings, the principles were sound enough, and she had no doubt that her rescuer would help her resolve that part of the problem. "I understand. They said basically the same things at school, and drilled public proprieties into our heads. But Jack, how will I know the right or wrong way for a man to speak to me or touch me when we are in private?"_

_He shoved a hand through his already disheveled hair and paced back and forth before the fire with a thoughtful frown a few more times before his face lit up and he said, "It's like dancing." He held out a hand to her and drew her to her feet. "There's a wrong way…" Suddenly, roughly, he pulled her tight up against himself, one hand digging into the tender flesh of her arm, the other sliding down to grasp her buttocks and squeeze as he forced her to follow his waltzed steps around the room. He stopped after only a half dozen steps, though, much to her relief. He released her, and smoothed the angry red marks his fingers had left on her forearm. "You see? It was dancing, but it was awkward and painful." _

_She nodded uncertainly, made painfully re-aware of the fact that she was completely at his mercy. He was so strong!_

"_Then there's the right way," Jack said, and this time when he held her close it was lightly. In moments he was whirling her around the room, smiling down at her as they moved together to the rhythm of an unheard waltz. When he stopped several moments later, she was breathless with delight, tingling from the physical sensations of their bodies brushing, wanting… more. "This was dancing, too," he said, and she noticed that his tone had dropped an octave and had gone somewhat gravelly. "But you'll agree that there was nothing awkward or painful about it this time, now was there?"_

_She definitely agreed. She thought she'd never met such an incredible man, so patient and wise, so strong and yet tender. And his touch was… She wasn't sure what it was, but she was sure she wanted more. "Teach me, Jack, so I'll know the difference," she requested._

John snorted. "I'll bet he jumped at that offer! He should have been shot!" he declared, and glared down at his lady as she dissolved into giggles at his outburst.

But when she saw his genuine upset, Marguerite suppressed her mirth, cleared her throat, and cupped his cheek with her palm. "Oh John, please don't be angry. He was a wonderful first lover." She kissed his jaw, then reached for his hand. "Remember, he didn't deliberately set out to seduce me. He really did sincerely mean to rescue me. When I looked back on it with several years experience behind me, the truth was, he had drunk so much that he simply wasn't thinking clearly. With all the alcohol in his system and in the context of preparing me for the future we both thought I would have, I have no doubt that he believed he was helping me."

He grimly shook his head. "That's ridiculous. You've only mentioned a few glasses of brandy."

"I haven't told you about every single drink he poured himself. I think he went through at least three bottles of different spirits that night, besides the brandy. And on top of that, I learned later that he'd been drinking steadily for a couple months by that point," Marguerite said firmly, and again that unaccountable compassion was evident in her expression and tone. "Besides, it wasn't only what I saw him drink that night, John; it was an accumulation of innumerable bottles of all sorts of spirits over an extended period of time. He was so inebriated that when I met him again, he didn't remember me at all. It had only been a couple years. Men don't usually forget me, you know, especially men with whom I've spent a night like the one I spent with Jack."

At her smirking, self-assured claim, he had no choice but to grin, albeit ruefully. She was right; a man wasn't likely to forget a night spent with a woman of her beauty and talents. "I'll give you that one," he agreed huskily. "We haven't even been together like that yet, but I know I'll never forget it once we do."

Her smile faded. "Exactly. But Jack did forget." With tender concern she informed him that Jack had nearly died not long after the night he spent with her. "They told me he lay near death for weeks after he collapsed. The reason he didn't know me when we met again was that he forgot that entire time period while he was steadily drinking himself into oblivion. Jack couldn't be held to blame for anything he did back then – although from everything I was able to learn, it was a rather dull span of time for him. Unlike periods both earlier and later in his life, there was no riding neck-or-nothing in the hunts or horse races, no riotous wagering on his marksmanship or horsemanship, no drunken brawls, no public behavior that would have imputed disgrace to his family – the only remarkable thing he did while he was quietly poisoning himself day after day, night after night, was to bid an outrageous sum for the right to bed a virgin. Really, he saved my life while he was doing his best to kill himself."

Roxton still didn't look appeased, so she gently prodded him in the ribs. "Come on, John," she coaxed. "He meant to rescue me from what those other men would have done to me, and he did. He didn't start out to take my virginity, but to preserve it. You can't deny that you understand how a well-intentioned man might fail to live up to those intentions if he was wholly saturated by alcohol, even if he would never have considered it while sober and in his right mind."

His couldn't very well argue her point; moreover, he was puzzled by the odd expectation in her expression. Of course she knew all about those disastrous months when he'd returned from the safari to bury William and face his parents' grief. The almost immediate death of his father, followed by the sensationalized publications spurred by Pierson Rice's profiteering at the Roxton family's expense, the unwanted mantle of the inherited title… Like Marguerite's first lover, John had nearly drunk himself to death. As soon as he'd recovered his health enough to travel, he'd gone. Fortunately he'd ended up in Tibet, where he'd finally found a measure of peace, at least enough to return to England and reassure his anxious mother that he was on the mend.

But if she thought he would excuse the other man's deflowering of an innocent girl just because he'd once spent several months himself being so drunk that he had little memory of his own actions, she was wrong. Marguerite was still watching him, waiting for his answer. He cleared his throat. "Understand how it could happen, yes. Like it, no," he finally allowed, grudgingly. "A man must accept responsibility for his actions, sober or otherwise." He could hardly fault the other man for his excessive drinking when he himself had resorted to near-disastrous use of alcohol, but he'd be damned if he'd ever agree that Jack had done the right thing when he'd taken advantage of a young innocent. "I can't and won't condone what he did, Marguerite."

She snuggled close again, satisfied for the moment. "Well, I didn't like it much either, his not remembering me." It was a deliberate misinterpretation, but she had a point to make here, and she continued before he could do more than huff in irritation. "I was so excited when we met again; it was a shock to discover that he'd totally forgotten me. My trust in him was totally shaken. It took a while for me to realize that he was still my knight in shining armor. The chivalrous part of him that had reached out to a frightened damsel in distress, the heart of gold that had motivated him that night, it was still there, if a little the worse for wear and hidden beneath a much more cavalier outward attitude. But he was still the same man that had given me a standard to measure other men by in the future."

_She'd been kissed before, kisses stolen by boys in the school garden, and more recently, kisses forced on her by men in the streets, men she'd barely escaped. None of those kisses had prepared her for the way Jack kissed her._

_His kisses weren't wet or sloppy or clumsy like those of her boyish admirers. Jack's lips were incredibly soft, yet the movement of his mouth on hers was firm. And he used his teeth and his tongue as well, tugging on her lower lip, sucking on it, then tasting it. And when she parted her lips with a gasp as he nipped her, his tongue delved in to explore, to sample her, to tease her own tongue. She responded shyly, testing out the sensations generated by this interaction, mimicking his actions and finding that this kind of kissing was so pleasant that she wanted more. He apparently did, too; they kissed until they were both breathless._

_Even then, Jack barely stopped. He only changed from kissing her now-swollen lips to planting kisses all over her face, her neck, her ears – his nibbling on her lobes and dipping his tongue into her inner ear left her trembling at the odd sensations that built in the pit of her stomach. _

_Or perhaps it was his hands that were generating that heated feeling in her abdomen. He pulled the pins from her hair so that her curls tumbled down over her shoulders, and he seemed to like the feel of the silken tresses running through his fingers. His fingertips traced the lace at her neckline, too, grazing her skin, raising shivers as he followed the material across her chest before he slid his hand down her side to rest at her hip. His touch left her tingling again, as she had when they'd waltzed so briefly, craving closer contact, wanting something… more._

_As if he understood – which of course, he must – Jack's other hand left her long curls and stroked down her back, urging her lithe young body closer to his. Something hard pressed against her, something that moved, something that ignited another source of heat inside her. It throbbed, making her wriggle against him, which in turn led him to press closer to her._

"I really don't need to hear the details," Roxton interrupted hoarsely, scowling darkly, unable to bear the mental images generated by such specific information about another man with her. To his utter disgust, her detailed narrative was having a definite effect on his anatomy in the here and now. It couldn't be right to be aroused by the description of another man's intimate touch to her person. There couldn't possibly be a good enough reason to make him hear more of this!

Now it was Marguerite's hands that stroked soothingly along his jaw and across his knotted shoulders, offering comfort. "John. Please."

He shuddered, eyes closing as he struggled to control both his agitation and his arousal. He opened agonized eyes and met her silver-green gaze. "Marguerite," he whispered, "I can't listen to this." Even as the words were torn from him, he saw her fear birthed and mercilessly buried away – suppressed now, this insecurity that what she'd said or done would lead to his rejection of her, hidden but very much there. He saw the moisture well up in her concerned eyes and knew she regretted having started something that was causing him pain, something that might come between them. He was all too well aware that she'd rather bear her secrets in silence than risk alienating or hurting him in any way.

Blast! Now he'd have to insist that she finish this, no matter how much it troubled him. If he didn't encourage her to continue, his reaction today would give her cause to resist her next urge to share something, and over time she'd choose not to confide in him again and again, worried not only about his rejection but about upsetting him. He was about to coax her to go on with the story when she surprised him yet again.

"I'm sorry, John," she said, her voice gone husky with her unshed tears. "I've looked on this as a good thing for so long now – Jack being my first lover, I mean – but it was very stupid of me not to suspect how telling you about him like this would affect you. I can see now that I've gone about it all wrong." She bit her lower lip, anxiously searching his face. "You really don't see the connections…?"

Startled but relieved that she was persisting despite the chance that he might turn from her – and rejoicing at this evidence that she was yet again choosing to trust him in spite of yet another initially poor response – he cleared his throat and focused on figuring out what she was trying to tell him. Connections… He remembered that bit of laughter he'd noted lurking earlier in her beautiful eyes, and his suspicion that there was a pertinent fact she was leaving out. Apparently, she'd thought he would catch it on his own, and whatever it was, Marguerite thought it would make all the difference in how he perceived her first lover. He struggled to concentrate, but still couldn't make heads or tails of it. "Connections. No. Not seeing it."

Marguerite covered his clenched fist where it rested against her hip, and firmly pried open his hand so she could place one hand in his and slide her fingers between his to hold his hand. "Focus, my love," she admonished fondly. "How many handsome aristocrats do you know with the title of Lord, ones who are also renowned for their marksmanship, horsemanship, success with the ladies – in particular, one who also tried to drink himself to death?" He still showed no sign of understanding, so she added, "I felt as safe with him as I do with you. And then there's his name – Jack. Come on, John, you must see it," she coaxed.

Roxton grimaced, irritated at her expectation that he would guess what she was hinting at. "Jack is a common enough name, Marguerite. I went by it myself in my salad years…" He broke off as her face lit up and she quirked a brow at him. "What?"

"You consider twenty-three or twenty-four years of age to still be – um - salad years?" she asked, smirking up at him.

About to answer, it suddenly occurred to him that she shouldn't know when he'd stopped going by his diminutive and begun using his proper name. In the next instant it all clicked into place, and his jaw dropped and his grip on her hand tightened. The auction of the gorgeous little chit he barely recalled from the midst of his utterly self-destructive period. That couldn't have been his Marguerite. No, she'd turned out to be some mercenary pretender who'd stolen every cent he had and then disappeared. No wait, that sounded exactly like what she might do. Oh no, it couldn't be. He couldn't have been the Jack that "rescued" her only to take her virginity anyway. No, it couldn't be. Lord, let it not be… "Me?"

**~~~The Lost World~~~The Lost World~~~The Lost World~~~**


	3. Time to Savor

**Summary**: Marguerite decides it's time to tell Roxton about an important event in her past.

**Disclaimer & Note: See Part I**

**Part II : **Oh no, it couldn't be. He couldn't have been the Jack that "rescued" her only to take her virginity anyway. No, it couldn't be. Lord, let it not be… "Me?"

**Part III: Time to Savor**

**~~~The Lost World~~~The Lost World~~~The Lost World~~~**

She nodded, brow furrowed as she watched the anguished thoughts flash across his face.

"Jack – it was _me_ who bought you at that bloody auction?" For a moment his stomach turned and he feared he would be sick. He'd ruined her! He'd seduced her! He'd -

Marguerite pulled her hand from his and cupped his face with both hands, forcing him to focus on her, speaking sternly. "Yes, it was you, John. You rescued me. You were my knight in shining armor that night, and you were my first lover. And don't you dare ruin my memory of that by vomiting up the contents of your stomach at the moment you find out!"

He groaned and swallowed back the bile under influence of the vulnerable, pleading gaze so at odds with the steely tone of her voice. But he couldn't mentally reconcile himself to the truth as easily as he controlled his physical reaction. "No! How could I do that – even stone drunk, how could I betray you like that?" And almost as confusing and disturbing – if she'd really thought of him as her hero, why had she taken his cash and run off? There had to be a logical explanation, but he couldn't find it, torn between remembrance of the aftermath of his insane chivalry and the awful weight of the knowledge that he'd bought and used _Marguerite_. The distraught nobleman tried to separate himself from physical proximity with the woman he loved.

Determined to make him understand what had happened, she twisted with him and, when he tried to push her away, ended up straddling him, her skirt riding up her thighs as she bodily pressed him against the woven ropes of the hammock to keep him getting to his feet.

He froze as she settled on him, all-too-aware of the soft, warm curves pressed against him. She quickly regained her balance, and he winced at the flash of anger and determination evident in her storm-grey eyes.

"John Richard Roxton, you listen to me!" she demanded, leaning forward to pin him to the back of the hammock with a hand on each shoulder. "Jack – YOU – came up with the only idea that was remotely feasible, the only plan that made any sense for a seventeen year old girl with limited skills and no connections. You did NOT betray me," she glared fiercely down at him.

"There's nothing you can say that would –" He was silenced by her mouth sealing his as she kissed him, long and hard. Combined with her position on his lap, he knew in seconds that he'd lost the battle, his body responding to hers quite instinctively regardless of his emotional turmoil.

Marguerite didn't hold back one iota, and by the time she broke off the kiss he was clasping her as closely as he could, given his painfully-tented trousers. Although she was flushed with equal ardor, she met his gaze with all-too-familiar determination. "John," she pleaded huskily. "Please hear me out."

He rested his hands on her hips, absently caressing with his thumbs as he tried to get his own breathing under control again, not an easy task when he could see how his touch made her shiver. Foggily, still distracted by the feel of her body so temptingly atop his own, tried to remember what had they been talking about.

Seeing that he was temporarily bemused, Marguerite took advantage of the opportunity to present her defense of his younger self. "The only way to keep me from being at the mercy of others was to give me the tools I would need to become a first class courtesan." She winced as his grip on her hips abruptly tightened again and his gaze narrowed onto her face, but now that she had his full attention again she doggedly continued. "You didn't ruin me, John. You taught me everything I would need to know so that I could move in the highest circles instead of ending up in some lice-ridden bordello or out on the streets servicing anyone and everyone."

Roxton glowered at the thought of her in such a vulnerable position, and uttered the first thought into his head. "I could have asked you to marry me," he shot back. "You were young and impressionable. You'd have said yes, and then we could have been together all this time instead of you going through these years alone. I could have helped you find your family. You would have been safe."

Marguerite's lips parted in a silent gasp of surprise. Her expression softened, and she leaned forward and kissed him again, tenderly but briefly. "You are the most adorable man," she said affectionately. "You're wrong, of course, but it was a lovely notion, and I thank you for it."

"What do you mean, wrong?" he frowned.

"Just think what your mother would have said if you'd taken me home and told her you bought me at an auction," she grinned.

He grimaced. She had no idea he already knew exactly what his mother would have said about his buying a virgin at an auction.

She nodded. "I was barely more than a schoolgirl. Your family would never have accepted such a match, and back then I'd never have known how to help you with what you were going through. Besides," she added, gaze darkening, "if I had married you then there would never have been a Parsifal. As difficult as my life sometimes was, I'd do it again, John. Parsifal was needed. It may sound conceited, but the war might have ended very differently if not for Parsifal."

John didn't like it… and he still didn't understand how it could have happened, but there was nothing he could say other than to agree. "I know enough to know you're far from conceited to believe your work was vital to defeating Kaiser Wilhelm," he acknowledged somberly, raising one hand to cup her cheek. "But I love you. I don't have to like the danger you were in, Marguerite."

She turned her face to press a light kiss to his palm, and again deliberately misunderstood him in order to get back to the topic at hand. "Being a courtesan isn't all that dangerous, John, not when you consider the alternatives. It was a logical solution."

He frowned at her for doing it again, but didn't call her on it. A courtesan… Much as he hated to entertain the concept, he had to admit that his younger inebriated self had miraculously stumbled across the most viable plan available. A courtesan had been the safest and most likely profession to offer a beautiful young lady any chance at a decent future, given the circumstances she'd been in at the time. Was it possible that this made some kind of macabre sense after all?

"You taught me about the pleasure human bodies can experience, the things a woman can do to please a man, and how a man could and should arouse and satisfy a woman." Seeing that he was truly listening now, beginning to understand and believe her, she smirked and risked teasing him a little. "And did you ever satisfy me! You really were a wonderful first lover, John, I promise you."

He couldn't help but chuckle at the lusty pleasure in her tone and expression. He also recalled how she'd admitted, earlier, that she'd kept her distance from him when they'd started on the expedition because she could easily feel too much for him, based on her experience with Jack – with him! – and that she'd long ago come to believe that any kind of deep feeling was dangerous, again, because of what she'd already had with him! Amazing! But deciding what to do with this new knowledge would have to wait; she was still speaking and there were still facets of this that he needed to know.

Encouraged by his thoughtful expression, she warmly confided, "You also gave me my first pistol and showed me how to use it. And the next day you took me shopping and saw to it that I had not only a carpetbag but also a proper travel trunk full of decent clothing and toiletries. You hired me a maid, a French girl who wanted to get back home to her family, and you personally drove us to Dover and secured a private cabin on the first ship sailing to Calais. When you escorted me onto the deck of that ship, you bowed over my gloved hand and kissed it as we said goodbye, as if I deserved your courtesy and respect. That captain and his sailors treated me like a duchess every second of that trip, and saw me safely to a reputable boarding house when we landed in France, because of the deference with which you treated me. You did everything you could to give me the best future permitted by my lack of respectable options. Oh, and did I mention that you insisted on my taking every last bit of currency you had available?"

So that was what had happened to his pocket money! It probably wouldn't be a good idea to tell her that both his mother and the Roxton family lawyer had repeatedly and severely berated him for impoverishing the Estate to buy a virgin who'd then stolen every cent he had – or so they'd all assumed back then, since no one had any idea what became of the girl. He must've done a very good job covering up the process of slipping her out of the country, because her trip to Calais had never been discovered by either his lawyer or the people hired to try to recover what had been "stolen".

Roxton decided it wouldn't be a good idea to tell her that his family estate had been forced into serious economies to recoup the erosion of its principal after he'd made good on his auction vowels. Also better never to let on that many of his subsequent trips "adventuring" had been for the sake of bringing home trophies that could be sold to contribute to the estate coffers to make up for that single act of knight errantry – not that anyone, including himself, had realized that it had been a noble gesture. His poor mother and their lawyer, and indeed, John himself, had considered his drunken purchase of the virgin to be a flagrant bit of profligacy that had nearly ruined the family.

Marguerite apparently didn't know about this aspect of their first meeting – an astonishing fact, considering her counter-intelligence expertise! He'd have to express his appreciation for the amazing level of discretion shown by the family retainers! Knowing how deeply his lady doubted that she deserved his love, it would be best to keep the financial costs of their initial meeting to himself. He didn't regret it now – in fact, now that he knew the whole story, he was bloody delighted to realize that some good had come of his intoxicated impulse to bid on her. But he'd make himself crazy if he thought too much about the fact that he was the one that had set her on a life path that had led to so much hardship for her, regardless of the fact that the difficult path had enabled her to become Parsifal and eventually brought her back to him.

No, much better to dwell on the remarkable truth that his appreciative gaze had been the first to see her delectable body, to touch her and to introduce her to the realm of physical gratification. According to her, it had been as good as he'd wished it could be for her. He could be thankful for that, at least. His lips began to turn upward as his determination to look at the bright side opened a slew of other connections. Suddenly much more began to make sense as scenes from the past few years flashed through his mind.

"What?" she asked at his growing smile.

"This is why you were so irate with me in Challenger's study when I was scarcely civil to you and then disparaged your ability to cope with such an expedition. You were barely ruffled by the other men's condescension, but the sneer of the man who once told you never to let anyone treat you as anything less than a lady stung you much more deeply, didn't it?" he teased. "I guess I'm lucky you only shot between my legs instead of a little higher."

Marguerite chuckled. "Yes you were. You were also lucky I didn't do more than bite your lip when you kissed me our first night here in the treehouse."

Roxton waggled his brows. "But you were such a tempting trophy, my dear!" She was right, though. His blatant lust in pursuit of a lovely conquest was the absolute antithesis of all he'd stood for in her memory of her first lover.

It was only natural, after such a poor showing on his part, that she'd resisted his advances at the onset of the expedition; she'd known who he was, and she'd known that his initial "rescue" and his amorous skills of so long ago had left her both physically and emotionally vulnerable to him, regardless of whether he remembered her or not.

Marguerite nodded, and confided with a rueful smile, "My view of you as Jack, my knight in shining armor, made it all too easy to trust you and follow your lead those first months after we were stranded here, in spite of your cavalier behavior and disapproval of me. I knew there was more to you than the brusque, oft-callous and brash persona you'd adopted in the years since our original meeting."

"Just as I suspected there was more to you than met the eye," he said, gently cupping her cheek. He'd always thought, given the strange semi-antagonistic relationship that had existed between them at the start of Challenger's expedition, that it must be the solid reputation he'd built through years of hunting and adventuring that led her to trust him, albeit reluctantly back then. Instead, he now knew it had been the tender emotions she still cherished for her very first hero that explained why she'd so often turned to him, against all reason, to get them out of trouble.

"Even if you were my Jack," she admitted, "I had to be careful."

"You were protecting us from who you'd become, from Parsifal and Xhan and all of the associated dangers."

Marguerite turned her head and kissed his palm in thanks for the way he said it, as an accepted fact. It was balm to her soul, after his initial doubt about her reason for keeping her secrets for so long.

Seeing the shadow growing in her face, and guessing at the memories his words had provoked, he swiftly offered, "So was it your tender emotions for Jack that had led to your willingness to listen as I talked out my feelings about losing my vampiric senses after you freed me from Calista? And was that what you were referring to in Paradise when you asked me to let you be who you are instead of who you were, you know, when you were under the influence of Kirin's eternity fruit? Not to mention a plethora of other mixed signals you've evidenced over our years here," he added with a smirk and a quirked brow.

She chuckled. "Yeah," she admitted fondly, "I daresay those tender emotions for Jack definitely accounted for quite a few mixed signals. Especially if you take into consideration my feelings for the man I've discovered you to be since we met again."

Wait a minute – that reminded him that she'd said he hadn't remembered meeting her when their paths crossed only a couple years later. That meant he must have met her again at least four or five years before their memorable meeting in London. How in the world could he have missed a gem like Marguerite the next time they'd met? Why didn't he remember meeting her prior to Challenger's seminar?

"Marguerite, you said you found out about my drinking after investigating that time in my life because I failed to remember you the second time we met. I stopped drinking after… after… you." He had to remember to watch what he said. He'd almost said 'after I decimated the family fortunes by buying you', and that would never do. He moved on quickly, "How is it that I don't remember you before Challenger's lecture?"

She wrote off his odd hesitation as his continued discomfort with the fact that he'd taken her virginity under less than favorable circumstances, and instead focused on the fact that he was now willing to hear more. "It was in Monte Carlo, not long after Adrienne's death," she answered promptly. "I was at a house party, and you dropped in for a few days on your way back to England. At the time, I was carrying out Adrienne's and my plan to find a handsome prince." She paused for a mere fraction of a second, and then flushed a little as she admitted with carefully casual candor, "When I first saw you from a window, I thought fate was blessing me with a dream come true. I waited for you outside your chamber and tried to talk with you when you emerged for dinner the night of your arrival. Naturally you must have thought I was just another fortune or title hunting female trying to ensnare you – which, of course, is exactly what I was and what I hoped," she smiled with self-deprecating humor.

Roxton bit back a groan, knowing full well how coldly and rudely he would have repulsed an apparently bold, predatory young woman in those days so soon after he'd become the target of matching-making, scheming mothers and daughters, especially if she'd behaved with what he'd have perceived as unwarranted familiarity. She would have expected a warm greeting from an old friend, still thinking him to be her hero. It must have hurt Marguerite terribly to have him curl his lip in disdain and set her aside without so much as a first glance.

Worse still, his idiotic self-absorbed attempt to protect himself had prevented him from meeting her and possibly saving her from the hardship of the experiences she would soon face, still alone and vulnerable to those who would use her. Two chances to become part of her life – gone due to his character flaws! If he'd only been less pompous, they could have been together years ago! He could have – should have – helped her, and instead, he'd added to her pain.

When he said as much, though, she shrugged as if his treatment of her this second time around hadn't bothered her. "Once I knew the facts, I understood why you snubbed me when I accosted you so informally and improperly. It took me several days of asking discreet questions to gather enough information to figure out that you had no idea who I was, and to accept that you truly didn't remember me at all. By then," she smiled wryly, "You had already continued your trip."

She must have been crushed, at least at first! It would have been yet another reason for her to regard him warily when they'd met the third time – and yet, miraculously, she was now his! He silently vowed to himself that he would use what he now knew to give her what he should have given her then… starting immediately. Their relationship had been building for much longer than he'd realized; she had waited for him for far too long now. "Why didn't you come after me?" he asked gruffly, bending his head to nibble softly along her jaw toward one ear.

Marguerite's lashes fluttered as his teeth closed over her earlobe. "M-my resources were not unlimited at the time. I…" her voice trailed off as Roxton's tongue dipped into her ear and slowly licked. "I- I had no means of following. And even if I could have -" she swallowed hard as he blew lightly across her lobe. "You weren't the gentle, patient lover I remembered so fondly. I didn't know you well enough to know which was the real you – oh, John," she breathed, arching against him as his lips moved to the vulnerably erotic zone beneath her ear.

"Good?" he teased against her skin as his lips moved on down her throat. "Did I do this to you that first night, Marguerite? Or this?" He lightly kissed her wildly-beating pulse point.

Breathlessly she retorted, "Oh _now_ you want the details?"

"Definitely," he murmured as he laved moist kisses back up her neck and along her jaw, pleased at the tremors he could feel race through her slender frame. "I think I should be privy to every bit of information about such a memorable occasion. In fact, I'm strongly of the opinion that we should reenact it as soon as possible, so that I can share in at least a little part in your memories of that encounter…" He claimed her lips and she melted against him, responding eagerly to his enticing kisses. "Don't you agree?" he whispered as he nipped her now-swollen lower lip.

Marguerite was rapidly losing her ability to concentrate. One of his large hands was massaging her scalp, something he knew she found very arousing, while his other hand was lightly stroking her side, tantalizingly close to her breast, but not close enough… She squirmed against him, shamelessly delighted with the resulting twitch of the solid mass where their lower bodies met.

He groaned at the almost painful increase in his arousal, but continued his sensual ministrations while he considered how to proceed. So, as her first lover, how would he have introduced an uncertain young virgin to the delights of the flesh? He'd had a good deal less technique back then, but he'd been far from inexperienced. She'd said tonight that most of what she knew of physical pleasure had come from that first liaison with his younger self. He fully intended to use his new knowledge to overcome any further objections she might raise to his ultimate goal.

"Did I do this, Marguerite?" he whispered, and she swallowed hard as she followed his gaze down to where his fingers deftly twisted open first one blouse button, then another, and a third…

"Roxton, Marguerite? Are you still out here?" Malone called.

Frozen, they stared at one another. "Maybe he'll go away," she whispered.

Regretfully shaking his head, John re-buttoned the lowest ivory disk. "Maybe if it was Veronica or Challenger, they'd turn back if we didn't answer," he whispered back. "Not Neddy. He'll keep coming."

"Roxton? Marguerite?" Now they could hear Ned's footsteps nearing.

The Great War's most fabled triple agent scrambled backward off the lap of her startled lover, and grabbed his hand. Placing a finger on her lips, she tugged him from the hanging chair.

Bemused, he instinctively mimicked her silent movements as he followed quickly after her – straight to the window of her bedroom! Marguerite released his hand and, with one smooth continuous movement, perched on the sill just long enough to draw her legs close to her chest as she swiveled and slipped soundlessly through the curtains into the dark interior.

Roxton blinked, staring at where she'd just been. Had she just voluntarily revealed another secret for the sake of continuing their lovemaking?

A slim arm reached back out through the cloth panels, and her small hand grasped his shirtfront and yanked him forward.

Startled back to the realization that Ned was nearing the curve of the balcony where he'd be able to see this section, John let the momentum of Marguerite's pull carry his upper body through the window, then gave a push off the sill with his hands and dove into a rolling landing that brought him to his feet well within her bedroom, only saved from stumbling into her bed by her arm around his waist. She guided him backwards into the deepest shadows of her room, and his arms settled around her as they stopped. They both held still as they heard Ned halt on the other side of the bamboo wall.

"It's not that late; I was sure they'd still be up," the reporter said in disappointment. "I was hoping Marguerite would translate this for me tonight."

"I told you," Veronica said patiently, keeping her voice low. "I know she says this is her favorite spot on the balcony, but I've hardly ever actually seen her here."

Roxton snickered. So he wasn't the only one she'd pulled this vanishing act on over the years! And now he'd seen her do it! He smirked at the thought of this fodder for teasing her.

"Her light's out, too, so you'll have to wait until tomorrow," Veronica continued. "That coffee you made to bribe her should be ready by now. Come back to the great room and have a cup."

Roxton could feel his lady's shoulders shaking with laughter, her face buried against his chest to muffle the sound as the younger couple headed back to the main section of the treehouse, Ned protesting that the coffee hadn't been a bribe. As soon as their fading voices proved they were far enough away not to hear her, she raised her head and asked in rueful amusement. "This was a bad impulse, wasn't it? You're never going to let me hear the end of this, are you?"

"Absolutely not," he confirmed, smiling down at her. "I'm delighted that you let me in on this particular trick. It's not something I'd care to do too often, but I have to admit I can see the attraction. I wasn't in the mood to share you with the others."

She nodded, and as his gaze adjusted to the darkened room, he caught a glimpse of a twinkle in her eyes. "No," she agreed huskily, "That's not what I was in the mood for, either." She hooked a finger through his belt and sidled backwards toward her bed, towing him along. "Now where were we?"

"Allow me to remind you," he murmured, willingly following her. He lowered her to the herb-and-rush stuffed mattress and stretched out at her side. Bending his head over hers, he covered her mouth with his and kissed her with tender, lingering passion.

The lovely brunette responded with equal passion, aware that he was once again working to undo the buttons of her blouse. She'd always reveled in his kisses, and anticipation of what was to come only heightened her enjoyment. She was soon lost in sensation again.

Enchanted with her whole-hearted ardor, her suitor seized his moment. "Marry me, Marguerite," he whispered against her lips. "Make me the happiest man alive. Say you'll have me as your husband…" He continued to kiss her for a few more minutes, and asked again, this time against the wildly beating pulse point at the base of her neck. "Marry me, Marguerite?"

"Yes," she whispered back, trembling under the assault of his hands and mouth.

"Promise?" he breathed across her bared shoulder.

"Oh yes," she agreed.

Roxton raised his head, gazed into her eyes, and smiled. "Thank you, Marguerite."

It took a moment for her mind to clear. She blinked and stilled in his arms. "Oh. Oh… oh, that wasn't fair, John. That was really…" she bit her lip in consternation.

"I love you. You love me. We belong together. It wasn't right when we met before, but it's the right time now, Marguerite. Challenger could preside over our vows, with Ned and Veronica as our witnesses. You know they'd be ecstatic."

She shook her head. "John, you know we can't."

"Do you love me?"

"That has nothing to do with it."

"Do you love me?" he persisted.

She sighed. "You know I do."

"Do you have any doubt that I love you?"

Her eyes rolled. "You're an idiot who doesn't know what's best for him," she retorted without heat.

"I'll take that to mean you know I love you," he smirked, but then grew solemn. "What you don't realize is that I know exactly what's best for me. There's only one qualification I'm looking for in a life partner; she has to love me exactly as I am."

She studied his handsome face for a long moment before she asked softly, "So I'm going to be Lady Marguerite Roxton?"

"You did promise," he nodded with a lopsided grin. "And I most definitely intend to hold you to it, so you may as well get used to the idea." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Besides, do you remember that incriminating paper with the doodled wedding clothes and your name mixed with mine? I still have that, you know."

Marguerite turned on her side and wrapped her arms around him. "I do love you, John," she confided, curling into him.

He smoothed her hair down her back, swallowing an unexpected lump in his throat. She had just accepted his proposal! "You won't regret it, my love" he answered, and his smile widened at the feeling of a butterfly-light kiss pressed to his chin.

"You're a hopeless romantic," she chided, but she smiled as she molded herself more closely to him, with the obvious intention of continuing where they'd left off. She was caught off guard by a wide yawn that interrupted her attempt to kiss him. She blinked and gasped, "Oh, I beg your pardon!"

Roxton chuckled. "It's alright. I'm tired, too, and it is getting late. What say we try for a little shut eye?" he suggested, remembering how exhausting their day had been.

"But…?" she broke off for another yawn before she could finish wistfully, "We were going to recreate the first time we met."

The adrenalin that had carried her through sharing her story, evading Ned, and their interrupted lovemaking was now spent, and he could see that her energy had wholly flagged. That suited his purposes, since he'd never intended to carry through on their lovemaking. Her weariness was the perfect excuse to avoid having _that_ argument with her again. So he brushed her hair back from her forehead and whispered tenderly, "Shh. Not tonight, my love. We've waited this long to relive old memories and make new ones together, we can wait a little longer. Go to sleep now."

Marguerite gave a token mewl of protest, but couldn't keep her eyes open. John continued to stroke her hair, knowing it helped her relax. It worked just as well in bed as it had on their hammock swing, and she was still faintly smiling when her breathing evened out as she slipped into slumber curled to his side.

Roxton stayed awake a while longer, drowsily considering the next steps. He'd already intended to give Marguerite the old pirate ring that had become a Roxton family heirloom. With a little thread wrapped around the inside band, it would do as a wedding band until he could get her something more feminine and reflective of her own beauty. The ring was the only actual item required for the ceremony, so now that she'd finally agreed to marry him, all that remained was to persuade their housemates to arrange and perform a proper marriage ceremony.

Challenger had already hinted privately that he'd be honored to perform the service. Roxton had no doubt that Ned and Veronica would eagerly accept the roles of best man and maid of honor. Flowers and a wedding cake wouldn't be a problem, either. If he wasn't mistaken, they still had one last bottle of the champagne gifted to them by the Hagan. In lieu of an orchestra, Veronica's gramophone would provide the music for a wedding dance...

Dancing! He suddenly recalled Marguerite's surprised amusement when he'd asked her to teach him the waltz, and her laughter at his deliberate clumsiness. Now he understood why that whole scenario had gone so smoothly. She'd danced with Jack, so she'd known all along that John knew full well how to dance. Of course she'd realized it was a ploy on his part to flirt with her, and she'd played along, allowing him his game. Knowing Marguerite, she'd probably enjoyed secretly being in on his plot as much or more than he'd enjoyed revealing his "hidden" expertise at waltzing.

He pressed a tender kiss to his lady's forehead. She was a minx, and she'd doubtless lead him a merry dance for the rest of their lives.

She'd labeled him a romantic, but he'd soon show her what true romance was all about. If the shifting planes of reality and near-daily misadventures of life on the Plateau didn't interfere, he'd be married to his lady within the next couple days. They would honeymoon at the Inland Sea, camped up in the one-room treehouse he'd erected after their last 'vacation' there. During the day they would build sandcastles and swim, enjoy picnic meals as they watched the tide ebb and flow, and walk hand-in-hand along the waterfront. And they'd finish each day together on the beach in the moonlight. He'd learned a thing or two about lovemaking since his salad days and he fully intended to do far more with Marguerite than merely reenact the first time they'd met.

**~~~The Lost World~~~The Lost World~~~The Lost World~~~ **


End file.
